


D.S. al Coda

by spiderweb_wine



Series: Coda [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderweb_wine/pseuds/spiderweb_wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PG wee!kiddie rambles, because I don't think Dean had an easy childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	D.S. al Coda

**Author's Note:**

> I have only seen up to S5, and this was written in 2009 on my LJ, so is probably wildly out of canon. No apologies!

Sammy’s eight and not scared, still he’s got a death grip on Dean’s hand. Good thing, too -

– he’s still too short to run quite fast enough but Dean can’t let him fall behind, not with a spirit tight on their heels. He’s sure Sammy’s being dragged, just a little. Ahead, Dad shouts, “Duck!” He turns, fires, and the shot goes over their heads because Dean’s quick to follow orders, he and Sam are already falling onto the rough wood planks. The salt hits the spirit – it disperses. In the sudden silence Dean hauls Sam up again, keeps running. Dad’s shot this spirit twice already and it won’t leave, salting it just buys them a few seconds and a few yards of distance and Dean is sure that if Dad were alone he could finish the thing off, but he’s got them, too - -

Then it’s back and it’s screaming again and all they can do is run.

Another 20 yards and another shotgun blast and Dean’s getting tired of smacking into this particular floor. Dad’s cursing, Sam’s panting. In the silence before the screaming spirit re-forms Dad says, “Boys, the car.”

“Yeah,” Dean gasps, happy to know where they’re trying to get to, but the car is two blocks away. “I’m sorry,” he adds, in case it’ll help, and has time to hear Dad’s reply of “Not your fault, Dean-o,” before the spirit is back. Except it is sort of his fault. He’d wanted ice cream, Sammy had seconded the motion. There was a limit to how much weaponry Dad could walk into civilian shops with so all they had when Dad did his usual trouble-magnet trick was the rock salt gun.

“Dad?” Sam’s voice is all breath and no volume; Dad hears it somehow through the spirit’s unholy noise.

“Kind of busy here, Sammy, save it!” he shouts – he’s loading the shotgun while running. Dean squeezes Sam’s hand to mean, I’ll listen later, okay? but Sam is undeterred.

“Dad, this is Oregon, right?”

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“Is this – was this a fishing town?” Because it’s mostly a tourist town, now, and Dean’s not even sure why they’ve decided to stay here three days.

“What?” Dad sounds irritated, and Dean shouts Sammy’s question louder for him.

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“Then I think you should use iron, Dad. Symbols carved with iron.”

There’s no time for questions and Dad doesn’t ask for clarification. He grabs the old jackknife he always carries from its boot-sheath and starts writing rough symbols into the wood with its point. Dead keeps Sam moving, giving Dad enough space to do whatever this is going to be. They only have seconds and it’ll have to be enough.

The spirit hits the symbols like a brick wall and stops, caught, still shrieking. Dad smiles for the first time tonight and flings the jackknife. The knife goes right through where the spirit’s heart would be, it – she? – yells, gurgles. Coughs. Then disappears. The jackknife falls to the ground between the symbols, and when Dad picks it up, Dean can see that the blade has been worn away to a thin sickle of shining metal. The handle is still dull, rusty.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dad says, then with his full, heavy attention on Sam, “where did you learn that?”

Sam doesn’t drop Dean’s hand, he clutches it tighter and Dean can feel the sweat between them now. “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it to do anything.”

“Mean what?” Dad’s pumped up from the chase. Dean can’t tell him to tone it down, just because hey, Sam’s scared. Sam is, in his own words, ‘eight, and not scared!’

“I - -” Sam chokes and spits it out. “I got a library card.”

“You…”

“I was careful! The library is only a block from the motel. The librarian wanted your signature on the card too and I said you were at work until 5:00 and that I was bored now, and I - ”

“Let me see,” Dad says, a low rumble. Sam pulls the card from a pocket and hands it over. On the back in childish scrawl it reads, ‘Samuel Henderson.’

“I was careful!” Sam repeats. “I only gave her the name you gave the motel clerk.”

Silence, then, while Dad turns the card over between his fingers. Sam breaks it. “It didn’t cost anything, Dad, and I only got two books, and one of them says stuff about this.” He points to the symbols, the knife. “She said the card works in the whole county and I checked – the library has a drop-slot so if we leave at night I can still give the books back!”

Dad smiles, and it’s not the cold, dangerous kind of smile this time. “Good, Sammy, alright.” He flips Dean a 'I don’t know why you weren’t watching Sammy, but do a better job next time' look, then picks Sam up and puts an arm around Dean’s shoulders. He leaves the knife lying there, turns them all towards the exit. “Ice cream’s waiting, come on.”


End file.
